.png)
May 26, 2022
What’s That Feeling?
It’s called scanxiety. That unsettledness that follows cancer folks around like the cloud of dirt around PigPen. The irritability. The preoccupation with that Other Life you live that others don’t see. Because I think we do. Live with one foot in two worlds, that is. One foot in the did you get any toilet paper world, vs. the other in the uneventful administration of 47 mL Omnipaque 350 intravenous contrast helical scanning was obtained of the chest world, simultaneously. I was never any good at doing a split in gym class. I’m no better now. (Actually, I’m working on being able to do a sit up, which I also was unable to do in elementary school gym class, so there you go.)
Yesterday was the CT scan with contrast. Because of that global shortage of contrast dyes, I told both radiology people who set me up for the scan that unless I was getting the contrast, I was going home. (I’m kinda assertive lately.) No, contrast material was tight, but I would have my scan. And, besides, they think they’ll be getting more contrast in June. Or maybe July. It’s amazing the things we take for granted in our privileged, “civilized” Western culture.
Sometimes people from other countries write into to lung cancer discussion groups and they have no access to the diagnostic tools or treatments we do. Not infrequently, they are people from countries who have socialized or national medicine. Many of these folks have to fight to get even a single PET scan or MRI, which are considered standard in cancer care in the United States. Or, a patient’s surgeon might deem her “cured” after he removes a piece of her lung, so why would she need a referral to an oncologist if he’d cured her? (Because lung cancer has probably sent out its little cancer seeds, you big dopehead.) Sometimes people write from South America or South Asia or other countries, begging for people to send them a TKI or other medicine. That’s when I am overcome with gratitude, and a small helping of shame, because why the hell are things so inequitable in this world? (Or nation or city….)
Tomorrow is a check up MRI and visit with Mack the Knife. An MRI basically means the whole day is shot since I take lorazepam, a benzo(diazepine) for short term management of anxiety, the kind that arises when one is in a narrow tube with very loud random banging noises all around, i.e., an MRI.
I’ll be loopy all morning, then fall asleep and be groggy all afternoon. Mark says I will not be driving that day, so he will take me to see Mack the Knife later in the afternoon. (If you are ever wondering how you can support a friend with cancer who doesn’t have a family around– or has a family that won’t/can’t help– driving them to appointments might be very appreciated.)
Scans and Kidneys
Yesterday, Dr. Oncology and I hung out for a bit to review the scan results. I have a teensy little blob in my left lung which neither of us is excited about because it’s so teensy and will probably go away by itself. (I’m under the impression that everybody can have those, but without other symptoms, they’re just part of the Mystery of the Human Body.) My right lung still looks crusty and damaged, poor thing, but some stuff has resolved itself. The TKI continues to not dissolve my liver or bubble up in my skin– Yay! We had some happy moments chatting about Cape Cod, where we are going in August (and that’s a story unto itself.)
Today was a new doc, Dr. Kidneys, to see if the swollen legs and urinary blood situation from January could be accounted for. I’m only going because the last time I didn’t do what was recommended, I ended up having a pulmonary embolism, which –who knew– you could die from. Plus, I have 9 million scans a year, all with stuff that my poor kidneys have to flush and sometimes kidneys do NOT like working this hard with such nasty business. I don’t blame them. So I kinda felt Dr. Kidneys would settle some of my wonderments.
Which she did. The weird thing was, as she reviewed my medical history from the past year, I was listening, going wow, that sounds really awful. That poor person. And then I realized– oh, that’s me. When she said, sympathetically, “And, you’ve got a rare mutation, which determines your course of treatment,” I was quick to clarify: “Actually, I have two mutations, one of which is rare, the other of which is semi-common.” I mean, what was she supposed to say to that? (I guess I was in “Just the facts, ma’am” mode.)
She asked about activity, which morphed into comments about my fitness goals and practices. I described my poor stiff right lung and how I was learning to ride my bike again and she thought that was dandy: “Lots of people would sit at home and say, ‘Well, I can’t do that any more.’ ” I showed my exceptionally tolerant nature by responding with genuine compassion: “Well, that’s pretty stupid.”
She was kind and sympathetic: “You’ve really been through a lot.” Jeez, I’d managed to block all that stuff and there she went, unzipping its little compartment in my brain. When I left her office I was spent and weepy.
But also appreciative. She doesn’t want more tests– hallelujah! There’s Stuff I need to do, but she thinks I have enough doctors in my life and wants to minimize her presence.
Still, I managed my feelings by eating a vast quantity of Trader Joes mini biscotti and a massive ice coffee. I didn’t feel a ton better emotionally, but the treats were lovely. And, periodic bouts of opening up the truth, even if only to myself, is a good thing.
I’m always aware, though, that if many people don’t live for long after their diagnosis, as a certain unknown-to-me-percentage don’t, who has time to mope around?
That would be really stupid.
Here’s hoping you have a day unencumbered by a cloud of dirt or an encounter with random stupidity. Thanks, as always, for reading.
Images
- PigPen: Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License 3.0
- Life Isn’t Fair by Nina Paley, under Creative Commons license
- Kidney beans by PublicDomainPictures
- Zipper by Wilfredo jr Dometita
- Goat by Beatrice Poschenrieder